


Paint Me Hope

by Zettern



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, Super Dangan Ronpa 2
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-29
Updated: 2017-07-03
Packaged: 2018-10-24 11:30:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10740825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zettern/pseuds/Zettern
Summary: He was the creator. The other was the distressed. They both faced numerous bumps on their own roads, but somehow managed to cross paths. Maybe they could create a masterpiece, something neither of them really imagined. This is a story of how two different paths merged together. This is how it all began.





	1. Paint Me Ennui

Scratching. No, it was more like stroking because it was handled with care and thoughtfulness. The sun had long ago said its goodbye, bathing the world in a darkness that was neither frigid nor oppressive. With nighttime came a comfort difficult to find during the mid-morning. There was a sort of creativeness hanging in the air, swift and relaxing, nothing could compare to the solitary hopefulness of a creator of various worlds. Lamps could flicker in the cold dead night, but it would not stop the flow of a paintbrush’s whispers to the silenced canvas. It would not stop a bountiful creator from giving the canvas handfuls of words with poems in delicately beautiful strokes.

Even as the sun returned with a new greeting, the canvas awoke filled with new words capable of swaying even the most sunken hearts to follow a path of newborn hope. Not as welcoming as the night, a brush was placed aside, resting in its second home for the next few hours as the creator reluctantly chose to open plastic, a meal, and water to wash it all down. A break had been due, since the creator lost track of all time, too enveloped in the newest muse to notice two days without proper care passed by. It all felt like a surreal jump off a nine foot building, minus the pain, yet including the rush and all the excitement.

The creator needed a fresh mind. Art must reach utmost perfection, never more, never less. In order to attain such perfection, a creator should always find time to set the brush down reconnecting with reality. Idealism is great. One hundred percent idealism destroys the muse. There has to be a certain balance between idealism and realism, regardless of whatever path is preferred.

A creator usually knows this because they chose to learn the hard way. It fuels them.

Lights flickered off, soon stairs creaked under the weight of the creator, burdened by the disappearance of imagination. Thus another muse was blending in with the shadows of the night, meaning minutes of waiting would turn into hours until wolfs apparently came out to howl in the thick forests.

There might have been a click as the television was switched on. There also might have been the sound of pages turning minds and gears of thought, furrowed eyebrows filled with question marks and wonder.

_Is this how it is?_

How strange.

The television acted as background noise, not fully present as the creator’s mind sunk into the deepest abyss of how’s and if’s. Pages turned with a gentle caress of the creator’s fingers, unraveling a world of truths a believer may never find. All creators know how to do is create without bounds or limits answering new questions that should have never had any answers in the first place.

Thrown away like the garbage it was, was the phone which loved to torment the creator as lost becomes a best friend. A ring here. A ring there. A new email notification. A new follower. Another one. And another one. And another one. A new text message from the muse-killer. Or the muse suppressor; the creator hadn’t decided how much detriment was on the correct side of the fence.

Ah, it’s not like it mattered or anything. The creator chose this very moment to smirk as gears in the head began whirling faster with each passing second. Eyes shut tightly, not thinking about any of the other necessities. Slumber was more fleeting than a single muse. To take such an opportunity was quite the honor, at least in the creator’s curious eyes.

Seconds couldn’t even be counted as the mind went blank, forgetting the muse and the constant ring of the phone that had been thrown to the other side of the home. Sleep had captured the creator, enchanting words, dreams and all.

The creator was now gone.

 

\-----

 

His tapped his foot on the ground impatiently, waiting for the moment the man would pull his damned wallet out to pay for his cheap cigarettes.

See, his shift was supposed to be over half an hour ago, but it was then when an influx of careless customers thought it was a good idea to pop into the store and jump onto his lane as if he didn’t have places to be. As if he didn’t have things to do.

But he did have important things going on. Well, that _should_ have been going on half an hour ago. He just had to be cursed to be stuck here, staring down a clearly unprepared customer who was still searching for the bills somewhere in the depths of his wallet which was full of useless and aged receipts. Who even keeps that many anyway?

He tried his best to not groan out in annoyance as the man shuffled through his pockets with his dried, yellow fingers now, looking for any kind of change, blurting out “um’s” and “Where did I put it’s” every so often, proving to the distressed that he was not leaving the store without that pack of cheap cigarettes.

The man had an itch on the top of his balding gray head he constantly scratched at with his right arm. The distressed could have sworn he’d scream right then and there if he didn’t need any extra money. But alas, he did, very much so.

It was one of the perks of living by oneself, without any immediate family to assist whenever life takes a turn for the worse. In the beginning, it’s an option to be somewhat picky, but after the first five jobs fly by, the opportunity disappears. Which is a reason why the distressed was forced into working at a local supermarket; one of the biggest franchises in the country.

A few bills sneaked their way out of the man’s wallet, much the relief of the customer, cashier, and the growing queue filled with sighs and eye rolls. Not that they could be blamed or anything.

Somewhere, in a perfect world, people would understand to not go to a cash register without their money readily calculated, placed in an easily accessible location. This was apparently too much to ask for in this world.

The man received his receipt and his pack of cheap cigarettes less than thirty seconds later, and the distressed ignored the constant ringing in the head, signifying there were better places to be than here. But it was clear, work was calling for a few extra hours of overtime. Something that wasn’t even asked for despite the nagging need for money.

Two hours pass by quicker than the distressed initially forced themselves to believe. Not that it was a bad thing in the first place, but it wasn’t necessarily a good thing either. Time was still wasted doing menial tasks when the manager clearly knew all the hours by memory. He should have dismissed right on schedule, per usual. Although there were times when he enjoyed seeing others “suffer” to an extent.

 _Nothing could be gained without hard work!_ Was something he would blurt out, because that was the kind of person he was, working while keeping a strong belief that excessive work leads to pure success and responsibility. Just when did busy lie to turn productive?

Whatever. Getting angry at superiors leads to bad results and the distressed did not need that on an empty plate full of imaginary food right now.

Getting angry at the customers, on the other hand, didn’t yield such poor results. It’s extremely simple to break an egg or two, causing the consumer to believe it was their fault for being so careless with their groceries. The distressed had it happen too many times to count, so they took matters into their own hands by playing the game as well.

A single customer had yet to complain, so there was no reason to stop being rude. They were cutting into precious time; it only makes sense to do something of a similar level, right?

The distressed could have sworn they were sweating buckets by the time the manager finally called off the shift. There was a pat on the back involved and a “Y _ou are truly one the most productive ones here. Keep it up!”_ If the distressed could, they would have rolled their eyes millions of time without a second thought about getting fired.

But money was necessary nonetheless. That and the city streets aren’t so welcoming during the spring. Allergies, diseases, rabid animals, rabid humans ravaged the streets anytime during the year. So, to be more precise, the city streets were never welcoming and the time of year didn’t even matter.

Quickly, the distressed rushed checked out of work, rushing away from the scene of misery, one foot in front of the other.

The distressed was now gone.

 

\-----

 

“He’s capable of going places with such an amazing gift.”

“His work fills me with joy!”

“I can’t wait to see his newest piece! I’d buy it for millions!”

“His exhibition is going to be in town soon!”

“He’s the next mystery we must unravel!”

“Did you know he drew me a picture once, before he became so famous?”

“They say he doesn’t do it for the money, ridiculous right?”

“I heard he finishes all his pieces in one day, and they go to the market the very next!”

“When is his next work coming out?”

“What will he be painting next?"

“What is his name?”

The creator has heard every single comment before. Countless times, actually. Those hearts were stirred solely by the idea of wealth and prominence in society. Does the mind not appreciate true beauty anymore? Do these minds not comprehend that the muse has been lost for weeks now?

Nighttime visits in the quietest of whispers, hoping to stir the heartbeat, increase it, fill it with something more than a nagging sensation. _It is not enough anymore._ And before he knew it, the time was gone.

Emails are received, emails are ignored. The creator searches for a muse even as the sun yells out a farewell. Maybe tonight would be the night when the eyes would awaken to a new muse and a new beginning.

Instead of creating, the creator shut off all lights, along with phone, and stepped out into the cool early morning air, peace filling his lungs.

 

\-----

 

“Where have you been? We’ve been calling you and you never answered!”

“My manager wouldn’t let me off on time. We had too many people today. They needed all lanes available.” This was followed by a long sigh as the distressed sat down on the empty seat in front of his friend. “Where is everyone else?” He asked, noticing the empty spaces surrounding the table.

“They said they were going to come soon, but I honestly don’t know if they’ll hold true to their word...” She yawned, trying her best to stay awake and focused. It was the least she could do on this cool morning. In response, the distressed nodded.

“Have you ordered yet?” He asked, switching the topic to something more interesting. Interesting, at least, in the eyes of a hungry person.

“I ordered your usual. Don’t worry, it’ll be out soon.” Another yawn. His stomach growled, as if it knew what was to come next.

The two friends sat quietly, patiently waiting for their food or their friends to arrive. It wasn’t something the small group looked forward to every other morning, but it was also something they all agreed to do. While walking down the streets of the town early one morning, searching for a certain shop, the friends happened to stumble upon a small cafe that just screamed home. This was the first day they ate there. Soon enough, they became regulars, never neglecting to order breakfast during their visits. Without uttering more words about it, the group had chosen to eat together every other day.

Needless to say, they never found the shop they were looking for.

 

\-----

 

“Nagito Komaeda, we are calling to r-rem—” He didn’t care.

“Komaeda! How have you been? Are we still doing that photo shoot?! Call me when you get the chance!” Maybe he should call back.

“Komaeda, shall we play again sometime?” He had fun. He’ll call her back soon.

“K-Komaeda! We still h-ha—” He didn’t want to bore himself.

“Hey Komaeda, we haven’t spoken in a while and I was wond—” There was no way he was going to listen to the rest of that.

Most of these people weren’t worth a second of Nagito’s time. Not because they were boring or anything, but because they were not interesting enough. And when he spoke to these people, he’d get lost in the thick forest of thought. He hardly spoke with others willingly. It was just something he had to check off his list from time to time.

Other options were difficult to find. If he didn’t do what he should, then he’d be filled with this nagging sensation, like a fly buzzing too close to the ear, showing how annoying a monotonous life truly was. _I should probably do this…_ or _Does it even matter?_ Were his most common mantras playing over and over inside his damned brain, now lacking the perfect muse. It was beyond irritating.

Maybe Nagito, the creator, needed to find proof of something filled with positiveness to overshadow the bitter occurrences in life. Long ago, he’d find beauty in the way others chose to live their lives with vividness and fearlessness. He had grown wondering what it meant to live with a loud voice and with recklessness, shouting all over the city, making sure names would be remembered for all eternity. But Nagito was never one to step outside into the bright sun, preferring the shadows of the indoors.

In a way, his seclusion is what led him to his current predicament: not being able to live a quiet life. Ever since he picked up a paintbrush, his life changed drastically, becoming his closest friend, something he could turn to whenever he needed a distraction. And he needed many distractions throughout his life.

He recalled locking himself up in his room and picking up a brush. The strokes turned to words on a canvas that could only be interpreted by himself only. Each sigh was a strike. Every breath exhaled was a splash filled with greens and reds.

Although it was a companion, it was also a burden. It was his mistake for even attempting to sell a few pieces just for the hell of it. The gained hobby turned to a job of sorts when recognition was plastered on his face and work. Strangers were found tapping his shoulder, asking for the price of his work and whether he needed a manager to be more organized. They asked for more of his work, begging for a light so bright to fill people with greedy joy. Nagito cannot recall all the times he shook his head in defiance. Even so, he gave in. He was tired of the countless whispers that reached his ears each night before he went to bed. This was not what he wanted.

To be rolling in wealth he never asked for was hell itself. It was the complete opposite of what he had in mind. A quiet life is impossible when fame was pulling his white tangles backward, sending him tumbling into an abyss of pure nightmares. He could be screaming for dear life and no one would care because that is what fame is.

What was even more difficult was keeping his private life as it should be: private. Critics, journalists, and fans all wanted to learn his life story. They wanted to know how he was cultivated into the gifted person he was now. Lies could be easy to craft, and he’s considered them, but then he would be giving the enemy the satisfaction of winning, and Nagito was not the type to back down so easily. It’s also extremely easy to drown in a sea of lies. The mind is a fickle thing, he discovered, others eat words while he forgets his own.

Was this really what the vicious cycle of life? If so, Nagito despised it more than the simplicity of winning at life itself. He needed a change. He needed a muse.

 

\-----

 

“Hajime! Chiaki! You guys are here early.” Kazuichi rushed through the cafe doors without a care in the world. He was late. Just like everyone else, so it was pointless to scold him like a parent. They were friends after all.

“Did you guys order for me?” Kazuichi asked, not waiting for a response from either of the two sitting at the table, plopping himself on a chair right next to Chiaki. She was engrossed in a game on her phone, probably since she was tired of waiting for food and everyone else. Meanwhile, Hajime shook his head, then propped his elbow on the still empty table.

“Do you know if anyone else is coming?” Hajime glanced at the pink-haired male, avoiding the oncoming complaints about how no one listens to him. At this, his eyebrows perked up and his sharp teeth glistened as if remembering an important detail.

“Gundham said he can’t come. Something about the hamsters getting sick...”

“So that means Sonia isn’t coming either.” Hajime shrugged it off. Gundam’s job meant the world to him, so it was understandable. Sometimes, Hajime wished he could find the very thing he was passionate about, like all his friends. They all connected because they were all so different and they were able to work together with such passion and he felt excluded from the group from time to time.

Kazuichi pretended like he didn’t feel a slight tug at his heart as he recalled that Sonia was far out of his reach. She was originally in their small group of friends, but once she started dating Gundham, he fit his way in. Much to Kazuichi’s chagrin, there was hardly any chance the relationship would end soon. It’s been three years and her eyes still light up when she looks at him. The same could be said about the latter. Sonia and Gundham were in love, it was obvious. So, Kazuichi had spent these past few years tinkering with machines to get his mind off of “the one that got away.”

“Don’t forget Peko and Fuyuhiko.” Chiaki said, pink eyes never leaving her phone screen. The volume wasn’t all the down, and Hajime could hear the faint sounds of video game music coming from her phone. He thought it was pretty catchy.

“What about them?”

“They aren’t coming. Fuyuhiko sent me a text.” It would have been a stupid thing to ask why they were late. Fuyuhiko would keep that to himself. Well, not including Peko. Those two have always been close, one always following the other, never really leaving each others side. Those two weren’t dating or anything. Fuyuhiko was rather touchy on the subject, threatening violence whenever a question about his relationship with Peko was asked. All Hajime knew was that they were childhood friends who did not want to admit their feelings.

“Hiyoko isn’t coming either. She has a dance rehearsal and she’s going to take pictures with her friend for promotional work.” Hajime added, remembering how Hiyoko yelled at him in attempt to stamp the information in his mind. She was going to be famous someday and her photographer friend has helped her gain the recognition she had received thus far.

“So it’s just us, I guess.” Kazuichi sighed.

Normally, this wouldn’t happen. This was simply a case of bad timing. Again. A few moments of silence passed as the three friends waited.

Chiaki was tapping away at her phone screen, possibly playing a new game having passed the one she was playing a few minutes ago, her eyebrows furrowed in concentration. Kazuichi was fiddling with a metal object, but Hajime couldn’t see it very well as it was hidden beneath the table. He was humming quietly to one of his favorite songs by a new artist who had been rising in the charts. Hajime, with nothing to do, perused through social media, keeping all complaints to himself as he saw how idiotic people could be. He grew bored of it quickly, choosing to find a book to read on his phone to pass the time until the food arrived.

The three friends were comfortable in the silence. Friendships didn’t require loud voices all the time, it’s better when they can find solace with each other. In a way, the friendship they maintained was like a flock of birds, moving together in the same direction.

Hajime read through a couple of pages until the breakfast Chiaki ordered for him was placed in front of him.

“Hinata, how nice to see you here again. Perhaps...you came here to see little ol’ me?” Hajime rolled his eyes as if expecting what was going to happen next.

“You know, if you need some more sausage, you can always ask me. I’d be happy to help you.” There was a suggestive wink and a slight nudge on Hajime’s shoulder, making him stir in discomfort.

“Hanamura would you please, for once, let me eat in peace?” He growled. It was the same thing every time he came to eat at the cafe. Hajime would have stopped coming if the food wasn’t so damn good, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t allowed to be annoyed or snappy.

The “chef” chuckled in response, not taking Hajime’s words seriously. “Tell me if you need any help swallowing.” He whispered tenderly into Hajime’s ear. He earned a disgusted recoil and a plate full of food in his face.

He had enough for today.

“I’ll see you guys later.” Hajime shot up from his chair, making sure it hit Teruteru in the stomach, who only moaned in response. The sick bastard was gaining pleasure from this. This only fueled the anger building up in Hajime, so he stomped out of the restaurant without another word, ignoring Chiaki’s confused face and Kazuichi’s laughing one.

Maybe he should stop going to the cafe if he knew he was going to end up an irritated mess. Hajime had already put up with a lot of people’s crap during work. In other words, he had run out of patience earlier than usual today. Hajime was hardly this irritable, but a person can only have so much on their plate before it started to spill onto the floor. And there was no way he was going to pick up food that he didn’t even want.

At first, Teruteru’s attitude seemed like a cheap joke that would wash away as soon as it came, but that ended up not being the case. That short male’s words continuously attacked him with each passing visit, growing stronger as the days went on. The not-so-funny thing was that Hajime was the main target. Sure, he flirted with Hiyoko, Chiaki, and Sonia, but soon his interests included the males of the group, his lust filled gaze locked on Hajime most of the time.

Despite this, Hajime had to admit, it was nice to have someone view him in those ways. _But that was only at first! Not so much anymore. Hanamura is a moron who needs to control his libido._ No one ever told him he was attractive before the day he stepped into that cafe with his closest friends.

Hajime hardly had any friends growing up. Walking and eating were all done alone and in silence. There were classmates here and there who would occasionally greet him, but they never invited him to anything. The lack of friendships caused him to grow skeptical of nearly anything. Somewhere in the back of his mind there was a seed of doubt planted in his mind, questioning people’s motives when they were too nice.

It disappeared the moment he met Chiaki. She had such a kind aura about her that it calmed him and allowed him to accept just once person without a second guess. Chiaki invited him to play video games at her house after classes and he accepted even if he knew he was going to lose to her in seconds. Then everyone else grew close to Hajime and he also accepted them, albeit with a bit more reluctance. But it washed away as time moved forward. Seasons passed and they remained by his side, supporting him when his life took rough turns in random directions, helping him when he had to apply at the local supermarket.

That wasn’t the matter right now. Hajime cleared his mind, trying to erase the anger in his mind. It was a breezy morning and few people were roaming on the streets. Clouds scattered throughout the sky, flowing with the wind. The sun brought a tender warmth as it peeked over the tall buildings. It was a bright and welcoming morning. Hajime could feel his anger dissipate. Maybe he should head back, he _was_ being rude after all.

No that was way out of question. There’s no way he’d return to the cafe within the next month...or so he hoped. Hajime felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. _It’s probably Chiaki_ he thought to himself. If it was her, he know what the text message would say, or rather, ask. _Are you alright?_ She had the tendency to ask him these kinds of questions from time to time. Chiaki often said it was out of habit, but Hajime knew otherwise.

He shook his head and continued to move forward, ignoring the cheering children, the affectionate couples, the lonely widows, the workers, the families. Everything. He solely wanted to go home and eat a quick breakfast as hunger began to stir in his stomach. Or maybe he could eat at a restaurant by himself. No, he didn’t want to deal with people right now.

If he walked without diversions, he’d be home in less than thirty minutes. Hajime would shove people aside if he had to. Okay, he wouldn’t...but he could!

Hajime was an odd one when it came to walking or anything else really. If he told himself to focus on a single goal, his mind would do so, blocking out minimal details and blurring all his surroundings. It wasn’t always the best. Chiaki had told him he had missed all the fun things in their little group because of this strange characteristic of his. Not that he minded or anything.

He began counting the seconds, measuring his footsteps every few seconds at first. It wasn’t long before he lost track of time and his mind went into full on robot mode. He navigated through the growing swarms of people smoothly, hardly bumping into others. If a stranger stumbled upon him and met his gaze, they would have found nothing. Hajime’s mind was elsewhere.

Where? Not even he knew.

All he knew was he needed to find a new place to eat breakfast from now on. He also needed to get home as soon as possible. And for now, it was enough to keep him moving forward.

 


	2. Paint Me Lassitude

“I can’t believe you won...again.” Hajime complained. He was currently sitting on his couch, playing video games with his group of friends. The game had allowed up to eight players to pick an avatar and fight one another. Chiaki had brought down everyone else, and Hajime was the only other player left standing. He didn’t let his hopes grow, due to the fact that she had all of her lives while he only had one life left.  _ But it wouldn’t hurt to try.. _ he had thought to himself. And try he did.

And fail he did. 

Terribly. 

He didn’t land a single punch on her pink, round avatar. 

“Seriously Chiaki, don’t you do anything other than game during your free time?” Kazuichi questioned her, already irritated of having the same outcome every time they all played together. But then again, he was the worst player. Even Sonia, who never touched a video game before meeting Chiaki, was better than him. Perhaps it was Gundham’s doing. 

Hajime glanced at Fuyuhiko, wondering why the other male was so silent. Usually, he’d be yelling or swearing about how stupid video games are before picking up the remote to play again. Instead, he sat their quietly with a slight blush covering his cheeks. Fuyuhiko noticed Hajime’s gaze and sent him a deathly look. 

“What are you looking at?!” 

“Hey, I hang out with you guys on a daily basis and I work long hours. It’s only fair I get to play games during me free time.” Chiaki said focusing on the new battle Hajime didn’t know had begun.  He was too late, again. Everyone ganged up on him because they knew he wasn’t paying attention. So when Hajime went into “game mode” he had only one life left and that was ruined when Chiaki sent his character flying off screen, killing him. 

This is what they have been doing for the past few weeks instead of going to the cafe. They still went on a regular basis but without Hajime, something he was rather glad about. But the group came over to Hajime’s apartment after finishing up at the cafe.  _ We don’t want you to feel left out  _ were Sonia’s exact words...just with hint of an accent and words too kind for anyone else on the planet.

Hajime stared at the screen, allowing his mind to wander from  _ I need to do my laundry  _ to  _ I should go take a walk.  _ Yes, he’s heard it all before. He’s a “boring” person, he gets it. There was no spark in his life; he lacked the passion all of his friends had. The distressed had no hobbies or interests that he knew of.

Chiaki had video games. Kazuichi had tinkering with all sorts of things. Sonia had a thing for leading people in the right direction. Gundham had animals and a pet shop above all that. Fuyuhiko had his job that Hajime has no idea what it is that he always disappeared to. And Peko worked with Fuyuhiko and she had this crazy kind of reflex that made Hajime realize he should never get on her bad side.

These were all amazing people with burning passions, and yet here Hajime was with nothing. How they found an interest on such a boring person, he will never know. They were all above average and Hajime? Well, he was nothing remarkable and the thought of it fueled him with annoyance. Not that he would tell his friends about it. What really should matter is that they are his closest friends and he knows they will never betray him.

“This is no fun. You always win.” Kazuichi grunted in defeat and annoyance while looking at Chiaki, who had a dazed look on her face. She was never the type to brag about winning despite her constant success with it. 

“Maybe it’s because you fuckin’ suck, man!” Fuyuhiko spit out, his baby face exploding with a heavy blush or anger, Hajime had a difficult time telling the difference at times. Kazuichi backed off instantly. Sure Fuyuhiko was a cute one, but his bites stung far more than hell itself. From all the time they spent together everyone figured out not to mess too much with Fuyuhiko. None of them necessarily knew exactly why he was such a daunting yet lovable loser. 

Chiaki initiated the next match and she only targeted Hajime until his avatar died. He sighed and decided to give up...after the next match. But until then, his hazel eyes remained glued to the screen in attempt to study his friend’s tactics hoping he could find a strategy that would work for him in the next match. 

After Chiaki’s final kill of Hajime she challenged whoever came closest to her: Kazuichi. Upon comprehending the situation, he squealed as he ran around the stage avoiding her attacks until she left him alone. His avatar then attacked Sonia who had smacked him with a frying pan. She giggled so sweetly, he could have sworn his heart melted a million times and over. Unfortunately, he grew too distracted to notice the next hit sent his avatar flying away, leaving him with a stock of one. 

Peko remained silent with the tiniest of smiles written on her face. She doesn’t always get the opportunity to be surrounded with her friends due to her job, so the crimson eyed girl always cherished the time she spent with Fuyuhiko and the rest of her friends. Peko sent her stealthy avatar to attack Fuyhiko’s, who was entranced with the battle between him and Gundham. With a charged attack, she slammed him off screen, losing his final life. 

“What the fuck?!” Fuyuhiko shot up. “Who the hell did that?” 

“Relax, it’s a game!” Kazuichi replied. He had this tendency to take things so seriously. 

“It was Peko.” Hajime blurted, studying his friend’s reaction. 

Fuyuhiko stared at him in disbelief. Peko never attacked his character and he never attacked hers. He believed it was an unspoken rule they established. When? He didn’t know. 

“Sorry” Peko calmly said, but her mouth was lifted at the corners which was something rare for Fuyuhiko to see. Her cheeks were a light dusty pink.  

Peko looked cute.

The more he stared at her expression, the warmer he felt his face get. Just sitting on the pillow in a cute skirt with a cute smile and a cute face...what was happening?  _ Is she getting cuter or am I just going fucking nuts?  _ He thought to himself. 

Red. 

Red. 

Red.

“Are you alright? You look flushed.” Sonia broke the hypnotic spell with her accented voice. Fuyuhiko snapped himself back to how he was supposed to be. “I’m fine.” He mumbled in response. 

Hajime raised an eyebrow with the newfound knowledge. Not that he was going to do anything interesting with it other than constantly annoying his friend with it. He might get punched in the face and have a major bruise to show his bravery for teasing for so long. Hajime made sure Fuyuhiko caught him mischievously smirking. 

Fuyuhiko growled before mumbling, “Let’s play another match.” Everyone agreed except Hajime.

“Actually I have to leave right now. I have a date tonight.” 

 \-----

Normally, Nagito wouldn’t take walks through the city during the day. Actually he hardly ever does so, but his constant need to find a new muse demanded he explore the outside world for once.  

He slipped on a pearly sweater that was not too thick nor thin but provided that marshmallow puff that Nagito enjoyed. His mother had knitted it for his father years ago back when she was taking a class during her spare time. Turns out, she wasn’t the best of knitters and made an extra large sweater in lieu of a simple medium. For Nagito, it was perfect. Oversized sweaters provided comfort and an expressive air of creativity. Along with the sweater, he pulled out his ragged and faded pair of black jeans. They were torn in numerous places, but that was how he liked it. His black shiny creepers were already waiting for him at the foot of his bedroom door and he had those on his feet in seconds. 

In his lavish kitchen, he untangled a random pair of earbuds he left lying around and walked out of his home with a new outlook on life where everyone but his own thoughts and music were muted. He was out to look for inspiration. 

It was noon, so strangers crowded the streets and sidewalks as they rushed for lunch. The sun was bright and welcoming while the wind was handing out slight nips reminding him that summer was yet to come. The trees were evolving into green rather than brown. Flowers were blooming in pots surrounding store entrances, parks, and yards. Birds were singing songs of hopeful times to come, songs filled with promises of a new life and new beginning. Squirrels were  out and about climbing the trees to explore the vast world once more before the cold returned to bite. In other words, this was one of the most beautiful times of the year. Where everyone’s eyes filled with hope and anticipation for the upcoming vacations as the school year was coming to it’s close.

With the spring always came a flare of freshness that the rest of the seasons lacked. It’s beautiful. Perfect.

Boring.

Nagito has seen it all before. He has done it all before. The florid life in the spring was nothing more than false wishes and promises. Spring was the reason why he ran out of a muses. He ate through every single one of them, creating dark voids of nothing. Instead of glowing and exploding with flashes of life, thunderstorms of love, and clashes of inspiration the end result remained the same regardless of what different angles he attacked it from. Nagito Komaeda only received the blackest of black. 

That was death.  

After time spent with his plentiful muses, they transformed into gray. It was like looking out the window on a stormy day. That was the reputation Nagito has now earned. People liked his artwork because he was a walking question mark.

Where did the color go? Why doesn’t the sun come out? What is this a reflection of? These questions were generally amusing. People constantly searched for answers, but when they cannot be found…well, they make up whatever crap of an answer and pretend it is enough to soothe their own curiosity. 

The best part of his artwork was which critics have scrutinized his every step, analyzing his content, the best and worst of his works to solve the puzzle that he truly was.

The creator was a man who respected privacy and so he managed to keep his life that way.  And by not sharing any information concerning himself, the public understood very well he was insinuating that they can go drown in their self absorbed curiosity and fornicate with themselves. Nagito didn’t care. Perhaps it’s the reason why people adored him so. Or perhaps it was the fact that he appears too similar to an ethereal angel bathing in an enigmatic golden light. 

It was true. Who wouldn’t love the boy with the amazing talent for art? Not only that but Nagito Komaeda had looks that could absolutely kill. He had stunning green eyes in the midst of a storm, hair as white as a cloud, and glowing fair skin brimming with health.  His style had all the fashionistas raving, while his rowdy hair screamed “I’m artsy!” according to the world. 

Which Nagito Komaeda was.

Which Nagito Komaeda was not. 

He weaved through passerby, searching for whatever would pass as acceptable in his eyes. Not many people were out and about during this time. The creator had wandered aimlessly for two hours, the lunch rush gone long ago. Every normal boring person had already returned to their boring jobs so they could wait until they could go to their boring homes and live their extremely boring lives. 

He had walked through several parks during his walk and to his chagrin, the creator found nothing filled with enough life to become a muse for his next pieces. On his trip to another park he decided to rest awhile. Nagito sat on one of the swings, choosing to sway with the tempo of his music. The smell of metal attacked his nostrils, shoving memories of his childhood days into his brain. They were the kind of memories that can make one reminisce of the carefree days where touching the sky and clouds with toes was almost possible with each swing, where jumping off the swings made the other children look like little ants, where it was amazing to feel taller than the adults for once, where life was as good as it was going to get and that was enough.  _ Life now,  _ Nagito thought to himself,  _ isn’t as simple as that anymore.  _ Touching the sky would not erase the scars life had given him because someway or another, he was bound to hit the ground.

Although nothing done can ever be taken back, the creator, disgusted with the constant odor, remained and allowed the soft spring breeze to tickle his hair and face. His music now muted. So the creator closed his eyes, neither in sadness nor remorse, but for appreciating the world he once believed to be beautiful.

There was a click. 

Alert, Nagito snapped open his eyes to find the source of the click. In front of him was a camera, a modern and extremely expensive model, which was clearly meant to be held solely in the hands of a professional. Holding the camera was a girl. She had red hair cut into a short bob. Her eyes were also green, but these were eyes of kindness and candy, and her pale face was covered in freckles that blended in so well it was almost too difficult to notice. 

Nagito cleared his throat, “I’m sorry but would you erase that picture of me?” There was a hint of irritation in his voice and the girl noticed. 

“I never erase a photo once I take it. That’s my policy. No matter what kind of photo it is, the moment captured in it only exists at that time.” The girl smiled as she admired the photo she had just took of this handsome male. “I’m Mahiru Koizumi,” she sighed, “I’m a professional photographer and I just couldn’t help but take a photo. There’s something about you...”

“Thank you but there is nothing significant about me Miss Koizumi. I’m Nagito Komaeda, it is a pleasure to meet you.”

“You know, I hardly ever take picture of males. They don’t hold the same joy as females do. With females it’s a more pure joy.” Mahiru continued to smile at the photograph of Nagito. It really was one of the most wonderful photos she had ever taken. “But you, Mister Komaeda, appeared to be so at peace with yourself I couldn’t  _ not  _ take the photo.” 

“Can I see it?” The creator played along, knowing there was no way in hell Mahiru would ever delete the photo, considering how long she has been gazing it with a sparkle in her eyes. Mahiru nodded and turned her screen toward Nagito carefully. The two saw completely different pictures.

To Mahiru, the boy was full of life, and the breeze moved his hair in the perfect angle, making it look as if one strong wind could break the male. His eyes shut, enhancing his long eyelashes that grazed his skin. His hands were gentle with the metal handles on the swing, and his sweater daring to slide off his shoulder. In this picture, in her eyes, Nagito was the embodiment of perfection.

To Nagito, his eyelids were dark and sunken from the lack of sleep. His nose was wrinkled up in abhorrence of the memories flooding his mind at the moment. His hair was wild and unkempt. His hands were gripping the handles on the swing so tightly as if it were his own dear life. If he wasn’t so pale, his knuckles would be noticeably white. And his sweater was so large he looked emaciated, threatening to expose his sharp collarbone. In this picture, in his eyes, Nagito was the embodiment of instability.

“With looks like yours, you could be a model.” Nagito laughed it off in the kindest manner he could possible pull off. On the inside, of course,  he was confused and slightly disgruntled. 

“Someone like me? Oh no I don’t believe I could ever do that.”

“Geez don’t doubt yourself like that. I know a good one when I see one.” Mahiru scolded him almost like a mother would to her child. “Look I’m not saying abandon your current lifestyle or anything, but if you need your pictures taken for whatever reason, or if you know anyone who does, give me a call. Here’s my card.” Her eyes glimmered with hope as she spoke, having faith that this angelic man will take her up on her offer. 

“Thank you, Koizumi, but I thin-”

“What is it that you do, Komaeda?” This was the part where it always went downhill. He was perfectly fine with speaking to strangers because they aren’t nosy. That is until the question grew personal. Once people discover his profession, they’ll want to see his works. Once they see his works, they begin to spontaneously recall the rest of his artwork. After that happens, they call him a talented genius and whatnot, leaving Nagito stuck conversing with mindless folk who would never come to understand him or his true nature. It was a living hell. Sure he could lie about himself, yet it was something he rarely did. He found at a young age that lies have the tendency to catch up quickly, especially with his godforsaken luck. 

“Ah nothing significant really. I’m just a painter.” Soon after, the usual happened. Koizumi asked to see his artwork, recognized it and adored him. Nothing new, really.

“Komaeda you have to let me do a photoshoot now and I won’t take no for an answer. The world needs to see more of the face behind these breathtaking works of art. My schedule is packed for the next few days, but I’m free on Saturday. It’s my only day off, but I don’t mind. Give me your phone number and I’ll give you a call. I’ll send you the directions later as well.” Koizumi did not let him say a word. By some strange force he listened to her commands as if in a trance. Nagito obviously had no intentions of following through with her convoluted plan, so he decided to play nice for her 

Mahiru departed right after her talk. She had received a call from a friend who apparently was a traditional dancer of some sort who was just begging for her attention. Mahiru didn’t hesitate at all despite her friend’s rude attitude. 

Wanting to avoid further interactions with mindless strangers, the creator called it quits on searching for a new muse for the day, maybe for the week. The creator was exhausted, annoyed, and slightly dizzy. Upon arrival in his safe apartment, he made a single phone call because the little voice in his head told him it was the right thing to do.

Within the hour the creator was out and about once more.

He had a date.

Something he never thought he’d ever have again. 

When he walked into the room, his heart was racing and his stormy eyes were wide with fear and apprehension. 

“H-Hello…”


End file.
